Romancing the Pirate 01 - Blood and Treasure (6 page)

“I have this special rub I use. And sometimes I soak the meat in coconut milk,” Henri boasted.

“Coconut milk? Fascinating.”

“All right, Henri.” Zane had heard enough. A few toadying compliments on his cooking and he’s ready to switch sides. “Please see your way out. Jason, fill our glasses then join Henri.”

Zane and Lianna ate their meal in silence. She had taken notice of the captain’s cabin for the first time. The room was spacious, the width of the ship. Although not abundantly opulent like her chambers, the evidences of treasure from mysterious far away places were tastefully displayed. Besides the table, he had an intricately hewn black desk upon which lay a writing pad, quill, inkwell, and a bronzed scale. Shelves secured to the wall served the dual purpose of battening and displaying books, charts, navigational tools, and drinking cups. A gilded mirror hung nailed over a rum cask and a white porcelain bowl filled with soapy water sat on top of the barrel. On a nearby hook rested a black tricorn with a large dove-colored plume. He must put on a fine display in the extravagant hat.

There were four beautifully painted trunks about the room as well, one of which was pushed against the door to her cabin, meaning he didn’t use that door often. She guessed one of the lockers held his clothes and personal belongings. But the other three she couldn’t be sure. Treasure, artillery, the bones of his victims?

His bed sat against the gallery windows, flanked with drawn heavy, black hempen curtains. The lack of luxury was made up for here as the view stole her breath. She thought of how peaceful it must be to stare out at the sea on a moonlit night, just like tonight, before drifting to sleep. In the arms of a pirate. Or two.
Lianna!

“Erotic.”

“Pardon?” Was he reading her mind? Again?

“The view. It’s titillating, spellbinding. I can’t think of a better place to lay my head at night. Well, ha, that’s a bald-faced lie.” He stared at her over the rim of the cup as he took a long sip, licking the brim when he was done.

Lianna squirmed in her chair. Confound it, was her cup empty already? “Tell me, why do you insist on dining as if sitting among a royal assemblage?” She hoped to change the subject.

“I always treat my guests as such. ’Tis not often that I can be a host to a lovely lady.”

“Ah, but am I not more a prisoner than an esteemed guest?”

“’Twould seem so, but I should think you well kept.”

“Hmm. I have never heard of a pirate with social propriety.”

“And I have not met a stew wench who pretends to be high bred. How is that?”

Lianna grew dispirited with the sudden thought of her youth. “It really isn’t any of your concern.”

“No, perhaps not. But I would like to know just the same.”

He offered a gentle smile. Typically people didn’t pry any further. His interest appeared to be sincere. She couldn’t comprehend why a pirate would be the least bit interested in her upbringing. Perhaps that is why she found herself willing to talk.

“My mother was a loyal housemaid to a wealthy landowner, Olivia Duchant. I’m not sure as to my father. I was told he was the valet of a visiting royal administrative official, or possibly the politician himself. My mother would never say.”

She glanced up, anticipating smugness in him that she was in fact a misbegotten child. He showed no such hauteur. Instead he nodded for her to continue. She didn’t think it necessary to impart a chronicle of her life to him. And yet, she opened up, opened up to a stranger without a cause for her concern. She by no means helped her position as his prisoner, but, perchance revealing herself to him would lessen any beastly intentions he might be harboring. Did people not show more compassion toward one another when they were on familiar terms? Or was that just a wishful idea?

“When I was young, my mother insisted that I behave accordingly while I set about to do my chores. I paid very close attention to the elite men and women who frequently called on Madame Duchant. At times, with my chores completed of course, I had been allowed to sit in with the Madame’s children as they attended to their studies. Once I learned to read, I had many books at my disposal. I used my spare time reading and studying and doing my best to educate myself.” She chuckled. “The Madame’s ballroom had walls of mirrors with frames of gilded scrolls. ’Twas in front of those mirrors I practiced prescribed behavior of the genteel, how to walk, how to speak, how to hold my back straight like a proper lady.” She loved those mirrors.

“My mother had hoped that I would catch the eye of some wealthy nobleman and live a better life than that of servility. Silly, I know. But a dream I held on to for longer than I should have.”

Lianna twirled her fork on a small bit of meat, staring at her near empty plate.

“How did you end up at a tavern?”

She sighed. “One night, while we slept, a terrible storm blew in. The wind blustered so fierce, so loud. I couldn’t hear my own screams. The house shook from the wind, peeling away as if it were but made of parchment. So much chaos.”

The shrieking gales, the cracking wood splintering beneath the invisible hands pushing at the wall pealed in her ears from the aloof memory. She willed the din away and continued.

“As quickly as it came, the horrible wind vanished. A fire consumed what was left of the wreckage. Five people died that night, including Madame Duchant and my mother.” She paused, forcing down the lump wedged in her chest. Had she been in bed with her mother as she was supposed be, she would have died, too. Many nights when restlessness refused to let her sleep, her mind fabricated images of her mother, terrified and calling out for Lianna. Hell had descended upon them and Lianna was not there. She had sneaked to the kitchen to read. Had her ambitions caused her mother’s death?

“I was sent by Madame Duchant’s lawyer to live with my only living relative, my uncle.” She set her fork down with a clatter. “He was none pleased with having to feed another mouth. Not being the brightest candle in the chamber sticks, he kept me locked away until he realized he could, under a heavy hand, put me to work in his tavern. That was eleven years ago.”

“I’m sorry about your loss.”

“Don’t be. I’ve long since mourned for myself. I suppose there are times I still maintain the ridiculous notion of someday becoming the wife of an aristocrat. At any rate, I will carry myself with the dignity my mother wished me to have.”

“’Tis a good attitude to take. I raise my glass to you, Miss Whitney.”

“Thank you, Captain Fox.”

They shared a moment without the benefit of words. Only the creaking boards of the gently rocking ship could be heard. Zane appreciated the hard life Lianna had accepted. ’Twas the cruel way of the undeserving and deprived. He should know. Many could convey similar plights, hers, no more remarkable, being a mere variation to others of her class. The wretched, the slaves, the vagrants, were all devoid of civil regard, denied kindness, and dependent on charities. Most simply drifted through existence or rotted away. A few subsisted with hopeful visions of a better life after death. Lianna’s circumstance had not lessened her will to be a better person. She portrayed resiliency. Indeed she seemed to take all her hits without losing her gait, quite literally. It angered him that she had to endure unfair injustices. But then, he had always shunned maltreatments of those who could not help themselves.

He summoned Jason to remove their dishes and bring another vessel of ale. When he dismissed the cabin boy, Lianna dared to push the relaxed conversation with him further. “Would you mind enlightening me about the medallion?”

The woman was genuine with curiosity. Zane contemplated whether he should ease her mind with a reply. He scratched at the stubble beginning to appear on his chin. “It’s called The Serpent.” Since her life was now at risk, he decided he could share with her the reason. “’Tis believed to have magical healing properties.”

“Oh? Magical healing properties?”

“Long ago, in ancient Greek mythology, there was a mortal man who was the son of Apollo, god of archery and music. His name was Asclepius. Asclepius had been an extraordinary doctor. He could heal virtually anyone. So adept was he at the power of healing that he became greatly renowned.”

This is absurd, he thought. Even more so as he recited the story once told to him. Men risked everything, even death, to get their hands on a necklace based on a folk tale. More important, they would pay a king’s ransom for it. For that reason alone, he agreed to undertake the preposterous task of chasing The Serpent down. The legend behind it made little difference to him. Bloody fools.

“It is said,” Zane continued, “he was given a vial of Gorgon blood containing magical attributes.”

“Gorgon? What is a Gorgon? I have a little knowledge in mythology from a booklet I once read. But I can’t place the creature.”

“A Gorgon is a female monster with snakes upon her head, tusks, and wings and could turn a man to stone with her stare. Medusa was a Gorgon.”

“Ah, yes. I know of Medusa.”

A note of admiration flecked in her tone. Zane couldn’t be sure but Lianna looked as if she wistfully imagined some scary fancy.

“When administered properly,” he went on, “Asclepius could use the blood to bring the dead back to life. Hades, the god of the Underworld, considered this to be bad for his business and so he implored Zeus to address the matter. Zeus didn’t care for Asclepius meddling in the natural order of things, and so he struck him down with a thunderbolt. Naturally, this didn’t sit well with Apollo. In turn, he killed the Cyclops who forged Zeus’ thunderbolts. Zeus banished Apollo from Mount Olympus. But at some point, he forgave Apollo and Asclepius, making Asclepius the god of medicine.”

He paused as he studied his fair audience. The corners of her mouth curled up, amused with the story.

“Governing with a fickle hand, as rulers are want to do.” She rested her chin in her palms. “Go on. What of The Serpent?”

It pleased Zane to have her full attention. “Legend has it Asclepius had the medallion cast in gold with a drop of the Gorgon blood. When placed in the right hand of the deceased and the incantation read, The Serpent is said to revive the soul, erasing all injury. Sometime during the Roman Empire, the medallion was recast to include the Latin inscription.”

“And what do the words mean?”

“Literally, they mean at the point of death, rise again to live, to love, to be faithful.”

Lianna nodded her head. “Hmm. Fascinating.”

He proceeded with the tale, noticing her skeptical brow. She didn’t believe that line of bilge any more than he did.

“Temples were erected for Asclepius where many sick and injured would seek cures. Often they slept in dormitories in the temples. Priests would then decipher their dreams, recommending treatments. One such temple was located in Olissipo, the city now known as Lisbon, Portugal. It is here that the medallion was believed to have been kept, secretly guarded. But the temple had been reduced to rubble when the city was taken by the Moors in the eighth century and eventually was lost to time. An earthquake in 1531 unearthed some remains of the edifice and many of the artifacts had been cabbaged, including the medallion.”

Zane offered Lianna more ale. She hesitated then lifted her glass for a refill.

“Nearly two centuries later, the medallion somehow made its way to the Caribbean. A merchant ship’s surgeon had recognized the pendant on a chain around a gunner’s neck. He offered to buy it from the gunner, paying quite handsomely for it. This doctor entrusted what he had found through correspondence to a confidant. Unfortunately, his associate was more interested in promoting himself politically than in protecting a friend’s secret.

“Both Governor Wilcox of New Providence and Governor Abbott of Jamaica are in want of possession of it. A piece of jewelry such as The Serpent could be invaluable and an extremely powerful prize in the right hands. Both will stop at nothing to obtain it.

“Realizing his error all but too late, the doctor drank his fill at a tavern in San Salvador. He babbled on to a fellow drunkard, a Frenchman, and hastily rid himself of the medallion. That night he was murdered in his bed. Hearing of the doctor’s unfortunate demise, the Frenchman boarded the next ship leaving port, but not before his identity was revealed.